


we know by now that time knows how to fly

by moonflow



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: M/M, just a couple of ex boyfriends brooding in bed on other ends of the city you know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25968538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflow/pseuds/moonflow
Summary: Nearly a year has passed since the supposed death of a one Professor Ratigan, and yet a certain detective can't get him out of his mind.
Relationships: Basil of Baker Street/Padraic Ratigan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	we know by now that time knows how to fly

Familiar, melodic music seeped through the walls of the small apartment upon Baker Street. It was familiar because the instrument's player only knew at  _ most _ five songs by heart, and it reverberated throughout that particular nook of Baker Street because he was playing far too loud. Basil tended to play to help drown out his own thoughts - though all they ever seemed to do was amplify them.

Seven months and sixteen days, if he remembered correctly. That was how long it had been since the fight atop Big Ben. For seven months and sixteen days, the scars upon his chest and arm still brightly shined in the fluorescent lights of his bedroom when he changed. Seven months and sixteen days had nightmares of his late archenemy's nearly feral, murderous gaze lingered in his mind, haunting his sleep. Seven-

His bow slipped as the realization came to him, making a rather comical sound interrupt the previously smooth tune. "Fifteen," Basil said out loud to himself and the ceiling he stared at. "Fifteen. I must have skipped a day. Typical oversight; I'm getting sloppy."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, but I think it's time to stop moping around."

Basil's head lazily lifted up from the arm of the plush seat he lounged in (surely he must have been allergic to sitting in chairs properly) and peered over at the entrance to the kitchen. Mrs. Judson, the landlady and the reason Basil hadn't unintentionally starved to death, looked more than a touch cross.

"Was I playing too loudly again?" asked the man, despite knowing the answer to his own question. One may have asked why he even bothered voicing the thought; perhaps he simply did not have the energy to be upfront at that moment.

"Loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood, for heaven's..." started Mrs. Judson, though she trailed off rather quickly. After smoothing down her front, she rested her hands on her hips and gave the man a scowl. It was one of her many attempts at being motherly; Basil often wondered why she bothered, yet he held enough common sense to keep that particular inquiry to himself.

"You need to go out and do something already; all the stale air 'round here is gonna get to you," the older woman continued. "And you haven't taken a case in weeks!"

Basil's hand fell lazily from his chest, the bow held in his fingers dragging across the rug beneath him in the process. "We've been over this, Mrs. Judson. They're not interesting - not flavorful enough to pursue. People will come to me for anything these days, I swear... Why not just go to the police for such a thing?"

"Because you're a trusted face in the community, Basil," the woman sighed. "People want you to help because you're you. And might I remind you, they're the ones giving you your paycheck."

"Rent due next week?"

" _ This _ week, Basil."

"Ah."

The man appeared nonplussed. Again, Mrs. Judson sighed. She allowed her hands to fall down to her sides and stepped further into the room, observing the area. Basil had long ago taken to using the entry room as a study and office of sorts, making it the first thing people saw upon entering the home. Despite this, he did a somewhat mediocre job of caring for things. He wasn’t messy, per se - he kept dishes in the kitchen and swept when he needed to get any nerves out. However, the papers along his desk were strewn, the beakers and such next to them having since gathered a bit of dust despite the contraptions scattered about still being in consistent operation. She’d always seen it as a bit of a fire hazard.

It was not the sign of a lazy man, but rather a depressed one. 

“Where on  _ earth _ is Dawson, anyway?” Basil asked as he swung his legs over to sit in the armchair properly. “Haven’t seen the chap all day. There must be something we can do to keep our minds busy; I feel like I haven’t been working him nearly enough as of late.”

When he didn’t get a response, he turned to Mrs. Judson and started upon finding her staring right at him. Her brows were upturned, hands having since folded in front of her.

Basil let the silence linger for a few more seconds before caving. “What?”

“Basil.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“It’s four in the morning, dear.”

The detective’s gaze shifted over towards the clock on the wall over his desk. Indeed it was. How long had it been since he had sat down? “... Why haven’t you gone to bed, then?”

Mrs. Judson released a sigh - a tired sound that accompanied her equally drowsy smile. “Because I’m worried about you, you old sod. Thrice a week at least do you sit and play that old thing and stare up at the mantle. I understand missing the excitement of the chase or however it is you word it-”

“Thrill of the hunt.”

Her cheeks briefly puffed up with irritation at being interrupted, though they deflated soon afterward. With a huff under her breath, the woman continued to speak. “What _ ever _ it’s called, you’re moping far too much, and I think you should get out for a bit. Not right now, obviously, but perhaps sometime tomorrow after you’ve had a good night’s rest.”

Basil pushed himself up to his feet after setting the violin and bow down, only just then realizing how stiff his lithe form was. With a quiet grunt, he stretched his arms upwards and to the side, at last replying, “Oh, I couldn’t sleep now if I tried. Would just be up tossing and turning all night; I might as well stay up until dawn at this point.” Stepping over to his desk, he frowned at the sight of dust and drug his finger over the top of its surface. “Perhaps someone will come in; who knows.”

“Tossing and turning or not, you should at the very least try,” the woman harrumphed. Without warning, she reached up and took his shoulders, gently but firmly guiding him off to the stairwell leading to his quarters. “And don’t say you’re going to go out, either; too many scoundrels wandering the streets at this hour!”

“To be fair,” replied Basil, unphased by his practically being pushed towards the staircase by Mrs. Judson, “I believe even alleyway crooks have to sleep on occasion.” 

“It’s a risk I refuse to let you take,” the woman huffed, finally releasing him just before he threatened to trip on the first stair leading upwards. “Now I don’t want to hear a peep from you until breakfast, do you hear me?”

Basil glanced over his shoulder and down at the woman, their eyes meeting. Hers were tired, and so were his own, though Basil’s held an exhaustion that went far beyond sleep deprivation. It made Mrs. Judson’s heart sink. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and said simply, “Sleep well, dear.”

“I do hope that I can, madam,” the man replied with a dip of his head. That was the last of what was said, for Basil ascended the staircase and stepped into the darkness of his room, closing the door behind him.

No sooner did he hit the bed did his exhaustion rise to the surface at full speed. Moonlight shone down on him from his singular window as he took in a deep, somewhat unstable breath. His chest nearly flattened with the intensity of his exhale, head lulling to the side on his pillow to stare at nothing in particular.

_ Thrice a week at least do you sit and play that old thing and stare up at the mantle. _ Judson had been right in truth, but Basil would sooner eat glass shards than admit the obvious in any situation. Yes, he stared up at the mantle. Yes, he stared up at that face that had haunted his dreams for years and years long before its model’s untimely death. It was because of that damnedable portrait that he was frightened to sleep half the time. Not because of specifically nightmares, no - but because of memories bubbling up from his subconscious. Of hands against his cheeks, chuckles against his ear, or of kisses against his forehead. 

Sometimes they would stay that way as he slept, and he would wake up with his chest aching so badly he wondered if he was suffering a sudden early onset heart condition. Others, however, would result in the tender touches and soft, incoherent words to dissolve into deep scratches tearing into his skin and primal, bloodthristy screams loud enough to make a man go deaf. 

Basil wasn’t sure which one was worse.

A subtle throb was felt in the man’s arm. It was a phantom pain and a reminder of what had happened those seven months and fifteen days ago - well, sixteen now, considering it was four in the morning. He shook his head, closing his eyes firmly and reaching blindly for the blanket resting on the foot of the bed.

“Damn it, you…” he muttered under his breath as he tugged the aforementioned quilt up to his chin before turning on his side. His back curled forwards, knees up close to his chest whilst his arms held the spare pillow next to his head. Tears were budding in his eyes, and while he tried to tell himself that they were only present due to exhaustion, the ache in his chest and knot in his throat was convincing him otherwise.

The blanket was tugged up and over his head, leaving Basil in a little cocoon of sorts. All he could hear were his own breaths, steadily growing shakier even as his jaw clenched and hands balled into tight fists. The pillow was held closer to his front, face burying into its plush surface.

_ Confound it all, _ he thought to himself as tears dripped onto the fabric, which absorbed the liquid like a sponge.  _ Damn it, you blasted rat… _

* * *

Seven months and some odd days. Such a long amount of time had passed, and still the bones had not fully mended. Otherwise the old scoundrel wouldn’t be hobbling about on a cane that had, miraculously,  _ not _ been stolen by the police or any vagrants that wandered through. 

Falls could be devastating, even deadly, and his was nearly the latter. He had crawled out of the Thames on his hands and knees, biting down on his shirt to resist the urge to scream at the pain it inflicted on him. It was long after he’d found a cardboard box to huddle in for a good day or two that a newspaper had blown onto his face in the wind. According to it, he was dead.

So he had to ensure people kept on believing that.

Padraic Ratigan had never been one to do things prematurely. He was smart, cunning, and deviously meticulous. As such, he knew better than to let the masses know that their journalists were incorrect in their reports as soon as he crawled out of the river. There were too many people who wanted him in jail, or worse, dead. Any lackeys he previously held would likely be more than happy to hunt him for sport. 

For the first time in years upon years, he was alone. He didn’t even know where Felicia was. When Ratigan had hobbled back to his old hideout, he had expected her to be there for whatever reason. However, all that welcomed him was dust and a ransacked home. He’d managed to scrounge up enough for a fire under the mantle and sat in front of it until he fell asleep, drenched clothes and all.

It had been the longest night of his recent memory.

As stated before, several months had passed. The initial plan was to wait until he had healed to begin amassing people and supplies for a new scheme to hatch, but the inability to go to the hospital hadn’t exactly helped matters. As such, his bedroom (which he had done his best to clean up given the circumstances) held assorted papers hither and yon on dressers and the coffee table before the mantle, chicken scratch scribbles covering them all. Many were balled up, having been tossed in the general direction of the trash can only to miss their target by a landslide. 

Despite Ratigan’s efforts, no ideas felt solid enough. His last concoction had more or less been his peak; he hadn’t expected to ever have to top himself afterwards. Though, he hadn’t expected that damned detective to outwit him  _ that _ particular time.

… Had he?

Ratigan was currently in bed, unable to sleep. His head was far too clouded, and his pains throbbed a little worse whenever he lay down. The irony of it never seemed to amuse him any. He knew why he couldn’t think of anything, in truth. He just refused to admit it, even to himself. 

Blasted Basil and that brilliantly interruptive mind of his. For ages it had always gotten in his way, but never before had it ended so… aggressively as the last time. For a few good days, Ratigan had presumed the man as dead as he was - that was until he actually read the fine print of the newspapers he’d been coming across. London was praising him for his defeat of the great crime lord Ratigan, everyone in the city ecstatic that the old codger (the paper’s words, not his) was dead and gone. 

So wonderful that Basil could celebrate a victory for once. 

The mere thought seemed to sting him, one of his hands balling into a fist against the sheets beneath him.  _ Yes, Basil, _ he thought to himself.  _ Relish in the belief that I’m gone. That you’ll never have to deal with me again.  _

That was why he left in the first place, was it not? 

Were it not for the dull ache in over half of the man’s body, he would have, at that point, rolled over in an irritated manner. Unfortunately, all he could do was brood and stare up at the ceiling in the darkness. 

… Ratigan didn’t have the slightest as to how he would reveal himself to Basil, or when. A part of him often toyed with the idea of never doing it at all. He could move away from London, start a new life, go under a new name, and leave crime behind. 

But for what? It was all he knew - all he had ever known. And besides, the thought of leaving the place he fled to decades ago left a sour taste in his mouth. 

His eyes closed tightly as he sucked in a deep breath and released it, free hand gripping the blanket on top of him a bit more tightly than before. No, London was his city, and it would be made quite obvious all in due time. 

With or without the interference of that stupid detective.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry the end is a little rushed im TIRED and had to get this out of my system. i love the rats. also is this canon or human au??? i rly dont know read it whichever way you envision it


End file.
